Merle Massie A Place in Historyhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com
The 100 Mile History Diet: Pursuing Local, Community, and Provincial HistorySun, 29 Jul 2018 21:39:14 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/cd69549f889cc94a2b8d22ca1fc9da8a?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs0.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngMerle Massie A Place in Historyhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com
#HumboltStronghttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/04/11/humboltstrong/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/04/11/humboltstrong/#commentsWed, 11 Apr 2018 15:45:53 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/04/11/humboltstrong/We are changing how we mourn.

When Canadians began to receive the news about an unfathomable tragedy on a lonely rural highway in Saskatchewan on a quiet Friday night in April of 2018, the news sparked a fire of grief. Then a blaze of support. Then an inferno of action that has spread across the world.

The bus crash that took the lives of 16 members of the Humboldt Broncos junior hockey team – from coaches to staff to media to players – sank like a stone into our collective Canadian consciousness. Our grief in no way matches that felt by the families, billet families, friends and communities involved. But Alberta and Saskatchewan, the home of so many of those on that fateful bus, dropped to knees in pain.

What, we can wonder, makes this crash, this tragic event, so different? Why has this pain engulfed us, flared so brightly, seared so deep? Some will say: hockey. The national sport. Every kid who had a public education in Canada played hockey in some shape or form, enthusiastic or not, ice or gym floor or street, during phys ed class or in the evening. If you’re Canadian, chances are high that you’ve, at least once, held a hockey stick.

That’s part of it. But not all.

My brother thinks it’s because of the bus. A bus, to a hockey team, is a lot of things. A way to get from here to there, and back again. The collective kitchen table and cupboard, full of food and eating and drinking. The motor home, with people sleeping in every direction. The celebration limousine, when you win that special game. The getaway car when you don’t. The pride and raucous joy, or the quiet drive of shame.

But I don’t think that’s quite it, either.

What’s different about how we’ve reacted to the #HumboldtStrong story is that we’re changing how we mourn.

Haven’t you noticed? Funerals aren’t the solemn, black-suit, Tuesday afternoon affair with flowers and somber faces and lines of cars heading to the cemetery with double flashing blinkers. Although that can still happen. And did, for days and days on end, as we laid to rest those for whom that was the last Broncos bus ride.

The last funeral I was at, it was a Saturday. And it was different. We sang and spoke and listened in the morning, tucked my uncle in the ground and were drinking Bohemian beer and eating perogies and cabbage rolls and kielbasa by lunch. Because he loved his beer. And his deep Ukrainian roots. It was the right way to send him off: not with a whimper, but a bang.

And public mourning? That, too, has changed. With social media, the “in lieu of flowers” donations can now go at the touch of a finger to a GoFundMe campaign, raising money for whatever is needed. I’ve seen campaigns tied to paying for funerals, flying home relatives and friends, opening the local hall or school gymnasium for wakes, money for grief support and help for those left behind. After all, we recognize that death carries costs: physical, mental, emotional, social, and financial.

So we send money. Because it’s something we can do.

This time, though, the energy normally sapped and wrung out by mourning was morphed, cut sharp by social media. It morphed from internal and personal to external and collective. We saw that we were collectively shocked. We were all heartbroken. We all had pain. So we took that pain and shaped it, sent it into the world not as anger and demands and retribution, but as action.

We put our hockey sticks out, and our porchlights on.

We signed donor cards, by the thousands. Go sign yours.

We lined up, for hours, to give blood. Go again. It’s time.

We watched a vigil that captured our attention, sparked a sense of togetherness, crossed political and social divides across the country. Yes, there were political leaders there. But it wasn’t about politics. It was about the team.

We hauled out old jerseys – didn’t matter what colour, didn’t matter what team – to show our support. From hospitals to Hutterite schools, daycares to old folks homes, we talked about the tragedy together. We bought t-shirts. Cheered the clubs, from ladies’ evening circles to NHL hockey teams to massive corporate donors who put their money to work. Sharing grief. Public mourning.

We went for snowmobile rides, lit bonfires. Lit candles down at the church and in our windows. Prayed. Took pictures. Shared. We follow the slow journey to health of those who survived.

We send cards, letters, notes on social media, frames and hashtags, emojis of hearts and tears and flags. That’s not much – doesn’t cost much, doesn’t take much time – but it shows our collective grief.

What’s different is that this isn’t a tragedy with recriminations. Rumble strips, maybe. Cut down a few trees. Bus safety. Stop at stop signs, people. Is there an argument to be made about social justice, how we choose to latch onto one tragedy, but not another? Yes. When is the time for that conversation?, the strong voice asks. And that voice just sounds strident, out of touch with those who remain, or choose to be, deep in the heart of grief. There is no answer to this question. Not one that can be heard.

The loudest voices are the ones saying, we feel your pain, Humboldt. We are so sad with you. Sad together.

My Mom was diagnosed with stage IV cancer soon after the crash. Lung cancer, metastasized to her brain. Two neurosurgeons made the call to operate, and fast. It was big. So we ended up on the same city and the same ward as so many of the boys from the bus.

At first, we were strangers in a strange land. Beefy security men asked questions: who were we there to visit? There was a long line of chairs down the hallway, Humboldt Broncos Visitors Waiting Area. Balloons and fruit baskets, boxes of cookies, homemade, passed around. Pizza? We have lots. Thank you, we said, bewildered. And ate.

It was a place of enormous energy. The love and good wishes and prayers and heartfelt love poured through the windows and doorways, into every room and bed, Bronco and roommate alike, from around the world. It was palpable. And it helped.

Mom’s journey continues. But as I think about the rituals of death, putting energy toward how we will honour Mom when the time comes, I think about the passion, pain and love that poured forth to the Broncos. Public pain, private grief, and the social intersection of the two. In our family, we are #MaryStrong.

To the Broncos: on the anniversary of your accident next year, the fates will bring us forth again. You’ll feel our action – donating blood, signing organ donor cards, giving money, wearing jerseys, lighting candles and bonfires, putting out hockey sticks and turning on our porch lights. Tears, both emoji and the kind that fall like rain down the face.

We’ve all become part of that team. The ones to whom we say goodbye, the ones who remain: we’re with you.

Because mourning is now about more than private tears. Mourning is action. Sharing that action, aiming in the same direction. Building traditions, building a legacy. That is how we mourn.

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/04/11/humboltstrong/feed/2merlemassieGreen is the Colourhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/01/30/green-is-the-colour/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2018/01/30/green-is-the-colour/#respondTue, 30 Jan 2018 21:39:22 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=1137In the fall of 2016, I was approached by C.P. Champion, editor of The Dorchester Review, to join a chorus of other writers offering short commentary pieces in response to the question: “How can we strengthen our traditions?”

An innocuous question, and not particularly specific, but then again, that was the point. It’s the context where that question found its legs: throughout 2017, there was a Canadian — and worldwide — conversation around statues, building names, and colonialism that sent tempers soaring, municipalities running, and social media humming.

Campion’s original email set the tone: “Casting a wary eye over the current wave of iconoclasm, statue-toppling, quasi-forced resignations, and all-round history-purging…”. So, the point of view is ‘wary.’ Huh. So I had to really think: Is this the genre of scholarship where I fit, especially since I’m no longer a practicing scholar?

The Dorchester Review receives mixed accolades, and that’s just fine by me. I’ve never been comfortable with the scholar-as-activist model, I do believe that there are points to be made on many sides of a lot of issues, and by the way, they offered to pay me — which is something no ‘scholarly’ journal has ever offered for my work.

Published twice per year by the Foundation for Civic Literacy, The Dorchester Review is a literary and historical journal that deliberately challenges concepts of political correctness. There are a lot of older white men propounding in the pages, and at times I read little more than a more refined version of the same arguments that fill the air at the local John Deere dealership, but even so, gems can be found. If you’re an armchair military historian, there will be much to enjoy. A lot of it is an uncomfortable read for me — but, I’m OK with that. Discomfort is important. If we only read the stuff we already agree with, what exactly are we learning?

The forum is called Safe-Guarding Traditions, which includes thoughts from twenty-three writers, including me. And — here was the publishing dream — my name is on the top-row, between two authors whose work I enjoy: David Frum and Noah Richler. How about that! I enjoyed Brigitte Pellerin‘s call to “Be the Change,” to strengthen our own ability ‘to converse with others in the political arena’ while listening to points with which we disagree. Noah Richler’s “The Healing Circle” wants Canadians to tear down our existing house of Parliament to construct a new one. That was a bit of a hard pill for me, a past member of the Saskatchewan Heritage Foundation. Yet the central point is exquisite: our leadership (MPs, elders and senators, and the Canadian people and press gallery) should sit in three concentric healing circles in a new space without colonial history. David Frum asks us to rename the August long weekend holiday to commemorate the battle of Amiens, a turning point in World War I. That, too, bears thought.

But I wrote something completely different. I started on the expected route, examining “How can we strengthen our traditions?” and how I might answer it. My preference has always been for buildings, bridges, and other social landmarks to be named for anyone or anything other than politicians (plants, animals, birds, heck, insects would be better in some cases); and I’m in favour of more statues, not less (supports the broader arts community, gives a focal point for public spaces, and a place for birds). But, were these points truly unique? No. So…delete delete delete.

Moments before the deadline, I had a bit of an epiphany. I didn’t have to write about statues, parliament, pieces of paper or names on buildings. What were some of our Saskatchewan traditions…and how could we in Saskatchewan make them stronger? Campion’s invitation arrived in fall, it was CFL season, and the Riders were top of mind. So, I thought, there is my hook. How can we in Saskatchewan make our Rider traditions even better?

I came up with a little piece I call Green is the Colour.

For copyright reasons, I can’t reproduce the whole thing here. But here’s the final call (while crossing my fingers which I’m hoping will not be slapped too hard):

So… Federated Co-operatives Limited, that’s your next project: create for us a potion. And sell it at the co-op. That is how we’ll strengthen a major Saskatchewan tradition.

I have long been a member of NiCHE: Network in Canadian History of the Environment. It is a cross-Canada (and international) network of environmental historians and historical geographers.

In response to the growing realization that only about 20% of PhDs land tenure track positions within leading universities, NiCHE editors have created Rhizomes, a blog series about alternative and post-academic career paths.

If you’re not a historian, the Hansard is the record of what is said in the Saskatchewan legislature. It contains the debates, transcribed, as well as the record of visitors, bills being put forward, and shows the province’s political leaders going about the business of government. It’s a great resource to know what’s happening, and to track political debate over time.

It’s a hard-hitting piece. I was on the Board of the SHF for three years, and I had a lot to say about heritage in Saskatchewan, and the way the SHF board has been working hard to protect, and fight for, the groups working on heritage projects across the province. In the end, I called for those currently running for the leadership of the Saskatchewan Party to look into the debacle, and get things straightened out.

I’ve since spoken about the issue to sitting MLAs and Saskatchewan Party leadership contenders, because this is an issue that transcends party politics. The SHF has been in existence, helping the people of Saskatchewan for more than 25 years. Heritage is not about politics. It’s about dedicated people fighting hard to save their heritage buildings and cultural landscapes, from north to south, and from east to west across Saskatchewan. Every political party and MLA has a heritage project in their backyard. And the current Ministry officials in the department of Heritage for the province of Saskatchewan are not doing a good job of supporting the SHF, its board, goals, and by extension the people of Saskatchewan.

I’m glad to see some traction on this issue. I understand that the pressure will continue, and I’m encouraged to know that it’s now in the Hansard as a permanent record — even if they accidentally thought that I’m a male, not a female historian.

To sitting and incoming MLAs: keep this on your radar. The people of Saskatchewan expect it: Do better.

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/12/04/saskatchewan-heritage-foundation-2/feed/1merlemassieSaskatchewan Heritage FoundationDamming Saskatchewanhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/09/28/damming-saskatchewan/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/09/28/damming-saskatchewan/#commentsFri, 29 Sep 2017 03:38:32 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=1067This is a story about aborted academic work. Years ago, I proposed and workshopped a paper. The original call came from fellow environmental history academics, building a curated book on the concept Landscape, Nature and Memory: Tourism History in Canada. We wrote the papers and sent them around for everyone to read before we got together. The workshop was held in Vancouver, and I remember my first introduction to Granville Island and Macleod’s Books. It was an invigorating workshop, with discussants and good conversation. I received good feedback (Ian MacKay liked my paper!) and thought that it would, in time, lead to publication. At the time, I was still occasionally aiming hopefully for an academic position.

But it was not to be. When the collection of papers from the workshop went around for external review, mine was deemed not a good fit for the overarching theme. It was too different. In some ways, I think the paper’s exclusion mimicked my own ‘differentness’ and ultimate exclusion from academia. But no matter. I worked on it a little more, and sent it out to Prairie Forum, a scholarly journal based out of Regina. I’d published with them before, and thought the little paper would have a chance to at least be read.

I didn’t hear back. At all. Strange, I thought. I forgot about it for a bit, then (remembering), dusted it off, and sent it to them again. It’s the internet, I decided. It does eat things, on occasion. It gets hungry. No worries. I’ll hear back this time.

Still nothing. No reply, no acknowledgement. So, I may be slow but eventually I get there. This poor little paper doesn’t have a home.

I could go back to it, work on it again, try to figure out where and how to make it academically publishable. Send it out again. And again. But that is no longer my life. Writing for an unpaid academic publication just isn’t an appropriate use of my time. So I won’t.

But it remains there, with many hours of research, and a lot of thought, hiding in a corner of my computer files. There is an old adage that says ‘unread books do no work.’ The same is true for articles. I didn’t manage to get it published (which would have meant external reviews, more work, and no doubt a much better article) but I can share it here, with you.

The article is about building the South Saskatchewan River Project, now known as the Gardiner Dam which created Diefenbaker Lake. It’s about the policy stories we tell, and how Saskatchewan desperately needed to create a story of water and beauty through tourism to counteract the post-Great Depression story of dust, aridity, and flatness.

Gardiner Dam, South Saskatchewan River

Who might want to read it? Anyone who has visited the dam and wants to know a bit more of its history. Academics working on tourism, dam, or general prairie history might find it useful. But if you are not an academic, I warn you: this is filled with references, theory, and a bit of jargon. And a few stories. It might be worth your time.

Still, I’m ready for it to be in the world, with all of its flaws and problems. You can deal with it. I have confidence in you. Click on the PDF below and enjoy your read.

Conference paper presented at World Congress in Environmental History. Guimaraes, Portugal, 2014. Edited for blog post August 2017.

In June of 2014, I was in my hometown of Paddockwood, Saskatchewan, Canada – population less than two hundred in the village, less than a thousand in the rural area. I was there to give a talk and show a slideshow of pictures from my most recent book, Forest Prairie Edge: Place History in Saskatchewan. It’s a place history of the region, which I spent four years researching and writing. As the lights darkened, a hush fell – with obedient silence – over the crowd. Kids squirmed, adults settled in, and my Great Aunt Clara folded her arms and leaned back. She listened with one eye half-closed as I moved from picture to picture, from story to story. She likes to make sure that I tell the stories right, that what I say agrees with her memories.

Locals can be a tough audience when you write a local history, but the slideshow and stories were a big hit. Clara got a chance to add to one or two of the stories, providing a few details on the local cheese factory, but I scored a home run: I told her some stories that she’s never heard before. She was introduced in a new way, to the place that she knows best.

And there’s that word: place.

Place is ubiquitous; it is everywhere at once. From ecology to history, place is a word that is used often in the English language: someplace, no place, every place, any place. First place. Second place. Last place. Place that over here. You’re sitting in my place. Let’s go to my place for a drink.

I do use place. I use it to describe what it is that I do, which I call ‘place history’. This blog post, which was first presented at the World Congress in Environmental History in Portugal in 2014, is a rough attempt to explain place not as theory, but as methodology. Warning: I’m rather allergic to theory, and decided this post is no place for a literature review, or even much in the way of references. If you’re looking for them, sorry. I’m posting this presentation because of these tweets:

Place based inquiry tweets

So, with apologies to Kaitlin Stack-Whitney who might be looking for a lit review or recommendations, this isn’t that. I’m going to describe what I do, when I set about to do a place-based inquiry.

I use ‘place’ as a method of organizing my research, of building a different kind of story. How many of you have read Dan Flores’ suggestion that we use a bioregion as the focal point for environmental studies? (I love that article. Go read it). My work follows on Flores’ in that I’m interested in the environment as a central defining part of place history. This post will explain three short-ish points about how I do it, and what kinds of information place history can show. The examples are drawn from two different research projects I’ve created in the last few years (with images from the powerpoint presentation).

So: what is place history? Place history is a research strategy. It is a way of organizing and focusing your research. At its core, it studies a particular place through the lens of time. You start, like we all do, with a research question. For my hometown place history, my research question was: what has my hometown region looked like in the past, and how has it changed over time? For the second research project, the question was, how has this landscape, and its people, responded to floods? As you can see, the first question was a bit larger, while the second focused specifically on a particular kind of event (flood). Both had advantages and drawbacks.

I start a place history by first defining a soft border around a research region. Sometimes, there is a natural boundary line that I can follow, but sometimes not. My hometown story is not a bioregion, in that it doesn’t have specific biophysical markers. It sits, in fact, at the transition zone between two bioregions, and that’s part of what made it interesting for me. It sits where the North American interior plains hit the northern boreal forest in my home province of Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan in known as the ‘land of living skies’, a prairie space, flat and treeless. I once heard my research summed up in three words: Saskatchewan has trees. I thought, good enough!

The second study involved a massive inland delta, a water landscape covering 10,000 square kilometers – about one-tenth the size of Portugal. The Saskatchewan River Delta is a primarily Indigenous landscape of enormous importance, ecologically, economically, and socially in the interior of Canada, straddling the border between Saskatchewan and Manitoba. Most of my work focused specifically on the upper delta, centering on the community of Cumberland House and the delta that surrounds it. The biophysical marker makes the research region easier to identify, but studying water means studying all the places the water was before it gets to the delta, so again, ‘soft’ boundaries are important.

So, the first thing that I do is define the soft borders around my research region, as a way to contain and focus my research question. What this does: it helps me focus my archival and library and oral interview work. I specifically search for books, theses, articles, and archival documents written about my research region and seek out a variety of specialists and knowledge-holders to read, study, and interview. I also visit, usually many times. The search is a large and usually an on-going process. It’s never finished; you can never find everything, see everything, know everything. A place historian must embrace a little bit of ambiguity, of vagueness at the edge of the laser focus.

TWO: the second part of my place history research methodology involves time. Place is about landscape; history is about time. As I find information about the place I am studying, I create a landscape timeline. I won’t show you one, because they tend to be messy, but do it however you want: on a whiteboard, using post-it notes on a poster board, using Excel or another program, or in a memo book. The point is to remember and celebrate that the landscape is not just the ecological backdrop for the human story. The environment is neither static nor inert. When you write a place history, you are telling the story of the land; people’s activities are a response to that land, and the land responds back. When I work on place history, the landscape becomes a key and active player in the story, an actor whose decisions have implications across the landscape and across its human inhabitants.

Let me give you an example: in the 1870s, less than 150 years ago, the Saskatchewan River – the river which creates the Saskatchewan River Delta – experienced an avulsion. An avulsion means the river jumped its track, leaping out of its riverbed to blow out a whole new river pattern, completely changing the way the delta works and how and when and where people could move through it. Steamboat traffic changed. Trapping patterns and fishing patterns changed. Silt rose, to the point where dredging was necessary to keep the boats running and people were predicting that Cumberland Lake in the centre of the delta would, in time, silt right up and become farmland. The effects of that avulsion are still working through the delta. But the avulsion had little to no imprint on the memories of the local Indigenous population, at least until scientists recovered it and started talking about it in the community. The avulsion can be traced through the historical record and scientific investigation, but little in the local memory. The avulsion’s fingerprints remain on the land, and it became my job to find out why those fingerprints were largely missing from the oral story.

The key part of writing a place history is to remember that neither the land nor the people are static. A landscape timeline gives me recreated snapshots or descriptions of what the landscape looked like at a particular time, and how humans used the landscape, and how and when and why things changed. With a landscape timeline, I can ‘layer’ both environmental change and human change to see what affected what, and with what consequences.

In the case of the delta, I soon found that the massive changes caused by the avulsion had disappeared from the local story because they’d been superceded by even more massive change in the twentieth century, much more recent in the memories of the local population. A dam, upstream from the delta, had dammed the water to create a large lake and hydropower supply. This dam, and the way it was run, disrupted natural rhythms to such an enormous extent that the local story started to sound black and white: before the dam, after the dam. The avulsion as an integral landscape story virtually disappeared. I only learned about it because, as a place historian, I was diligently collecting information across time, building my landscape timeline.

What I’ve discovered is that, by shifting the focus from a human-centered to a place-centered timeline, I have a clear perspective on what activities are possible, probable, or practical in a certain place in a certain time. It also helps serve as a predictor: what can make this landscape seem more desirable, or less desirable, as a place of human habitation? In the work I did on my hometown region, it became clear to me that the local landscape became desirable, and as a consequence became a major destination for climate refugees, during the global environmental and economic disaster of the 1930s. Whereas the nearby landscape, the Great Plains of North America, suffered severe ecological drought, the forest edge still had water in wells and coming down from the sky, trees for shelter and fuel and building materials, hay for starving animals chewing dust, gardens where “even the turnips were edible,” wild game and berries and fish. In short, there was a comparative natural abundance to feed animals and humans. It became desirable because it didn’t have endless black blizzards. As a result, almost 50,000 people relocated from the dust bowl to the forest fringe of my home province, a massive internal migration that changed the face of land settlement, agriculture, and population.

So, the second step in place history: create a landscape timeline. This timeline will help you draw clear connections between the landscape and the human activities you record as significant aspects of your research question. It can also help you choose more clearly which human decisions – politics, policy, or development – you need to understand in order to engage with your landscape. The answers to that can be unexpected.

The downside is that as your landscape changes over time, and as human activity changes over time, you as the researcher will need to become a jack of all trades. You’re not just an expert in one event or one theme or one theory; you’ve got to learn something about everything. This puts you at a disadvantage when speaking with an expert dedicated to one group, one policy, one moment, but remember that your perspective is built with light from many sources. And that can, and does, bring forth fresh new perspectives.

This multiplicity brings us to the third and last point: place history methodology draws knowledge from across a range of knowledge holders and creators. This range is substantive: science, social science, humanities, Indigenous knowledge, and the natural world. Data (I’m sorry – I hate the word ‘data’ but I use it because people understand it) data from natural and social science is deliberately blended with professional history, oral and community history, literature, and art to provide a broadly-based comparative framework. This is natural and physical science plus social science and humanities.

Why does a place historian need so many sources? Because each has a significant contribution, and each has the potential to carry a part of the story independent of other knowledge-holders. The story of the avulsion is a good example: its story is carried in the historical record and in the research projects of delta scientists. Yet it was virtually eclipsed from the Indigenous local memory. You cannot rely on one source to the exclusion of others. In a place history, you’re building a landscape timeline of a place, deliberately blending multiple viewpoints and information so that nothing is in isolation. A place history can show how a local lumber industry melded with local agriculture, First Nations, and the environment, with influence and impact in many directions.

Another example. The Saskatchewan River delta is historically a flood landscape, with thousands of years of flood adaptation and flood memory. Using place history methodology, I focused on my research region and looked for information across time, regarding flood events. In 1781, a major spring flood blew out the newcomer European traders, drenching their valued goods and creating a quagmire out of their fortified trading post. The Indigenous inhabitants simply moved to drier ground. The flood was a seasonal event; perhaps higher than other years, but not enough to shift anything in the Indigenous daily life, yet making a mockery of the newcomers.

Turn the clock forward to 1962, when the EB Campbell Dam was built, upriver from the delta. Floods changed. High water events came at different seasons. Rushing water came suddenly, at different times of the day, blowing out traplines and fishing nets, stranding people or leaving them high and dry, with useless boats far from home. Unpredictable. Human-made, not natural. The water would come or not come as a result of policy decisions regarding electrical requirements for people far away, not local needs. No one knew when or how to predict the water, and old knowledge was rendered almost useless. The dam was a disruption that caused untold ecological and cultural change.

One result of the ecological disruption was that the people changed. What had once been a water-adapted culture became increasingly land-adapted, tied to vehicles and roads, dependent on infrastructure such as roads and bridges. In 2005, the Saskatchewan River upstream was in flood, and the community of Cumberland House evacuated itself primarily because its road, winding through the delta, was compromised. There was fear of being cut off, of medical emergencies and isolation. The evacuation caused tremendous backlash in the community, particularly among the elders, who felt the evacuation was needless – and so it was. While it was a high water event, the community did not flood. After 2005 there was a resurgence in oral stories, a renaissance of flood memory from elders that drew from a time before the dam, when the water flow wasn’t restricted, when floods were a natural event and nothing to fear. In 2011, in part because of the elders’ clear response and oral stories, the community, when once again faced with historic high water, did not evacuate.[i]

In 2013, when flood once again threatened, the community was forcibly evacuated by the provincial government who clearly did not understand either the depth of flood memory, the elders’ knowledge, nor community resilience. It was, as in 2005 and 2011, a needless evacuation. The community did not flood. The provincial safety manager told me later, in confidence, that they would never again evacuate Cumberland House. Flood measures and protections, when used well, would be enough. Finally, the provincial emergency management leadership learned what local Indigenous elders drawing on a deep-time knowledge of water and the delta knew: the delta absorbs and spreads the water over a massive landscape; it floods, but it does not flood.

So to sum up, place history, as a basic methodology, does three things: one, defines a geographical soft boundary of place as a way to focus your research question; two, builds a landscape timeline that creates snapshots of that place over time; and three; draws from across a broad range of knowledge holders, from arts to science to Indigenous knowledge to the natural world.

Why is place history important? It is a methodology that allows us to ‘see’ and compare issues across time, through the eyes of a particular place. Place methodology offers a deep time perspective that transcends dramatic events to consider the broader implications of the intimate connection between humans and the environment: the delta as a water landscape, and how we’ve moved with, against, challenged and changed that; the forest edge as a rich ecotone between the prairie and the forest, and how we’ve moved that edge back and forth through axe and fire, agriculture, and tourism. What I find doing place history is often unexpected, and sometimes challenging to the status quo, because I’m starting from a different vantage point: the landscape, rather than the people.

And that’s how I can, when I’m really lucky, surprise my Great Aunt Clara, and tell her a few stories that even she didn’t know.

[i] For a deeper investigation of flood memory, the Saskatchewan River Delta, and the flood events of 2005 and 2011, see Merle Massie and M.G. Reed, Chapter 6: “Cumberland House in the Saskatchewan River Delta: flood memory and the municipal response, 2005 and 2011” in Climate Change and Flood Risk Management: Adaptation and Extreme Events at the Local Level Edited by E. Carina H. Keskitalo. https://www.elgaronline.com/view/9781781006665.xml

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/08/29/place-history/feed/3merlemassie2017-08-29Slide9Slide10Slide11Slide15Slide17Slide18Slide19Slide20Slide22Slide26Slide27An 1889 Cree Syllabic Letterhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/07/14/an-1889-cree-syllabic-letter/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/07/14/an-1889-cree-syllabic-letter/#commentsFri, 14 Jul 2017 23:49:44 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=898One of the most fascinating archival finds of my PhD research was a wonderful letter (in four parts) written in Cree syllabic. I came across it while researching the Adhesion to Treaty Six, which was signed by the people of the Montreal Lake and Lac La Ronge regions of Saskatchewan on a brutally cold February day in 1889.

Such files are usually read by Canadian researchers on microfilm, under the short name of ‘RG 10.’ RG stands for Record Group, and RG 10 files are primarily from Indian Affairs. These are critical files for researchers, from a time when correspondence was letters (not email or social media). While the files are mostly written by, for, and back and forth between those employed by Indian Affairs, there is the occasional fascinating jewel of a letter written by a local person. Even more rarely, there is a wonderful letter written, in Cree syllabic, by local First Nations leaders.

I took scans of these letters immediately, although I can read neither syllabic nor Cree. They languished in my digital files while I worked my way through other research, which eventually became my book, Forest Prairie Edge. The following is an excerpt that explains the Treaty Six Adhesion:

“After years of agitation and repeated requests from the boreal bands in the north Prince Albert region, the Crown finally agreed to offer treaty. The difference between an internal adhesion and an external adhesion was crucial: an internal adhesion added people to existing treaty stipulations; an external adhesion added both new people and new lands to an existing treaty. In the latter, treaty terms were at least somewhat negotiable.

“The external adhesion attempted to sort out a dual problem. On the one hand, there were bands with homes in the north Prince Albert region, within the boundaries of Treaty 6, that had not been offered treaty. Securing an external adhesion, which acted essentially as a new treaty, clarified the uncertainty of who was, and who was not, in treaty relationship with the Crown. Although there is nothing in the official records to act as confirmation, an external adhesion could negate continuing calls for arrears in treaty annuity payments.”

“The second problem came from the commercial interests of investors in Prince Albert. Surveyors, scouting and marking out timber berths, realized that the boundaries of Treaty 6 did not entirely cover the potential area of forest resources that the Prince Albert community believed was within their economic sphere. In short, the land ceded by Treaty 6 did not correspond to the boundaries of the Saskatchewan District of the North-West Territories[i] or Prince Albert’s intended commercial empire of northern boreal resources. Officials at Indian Affairs explained: “The object in getting the surrender just now is in order that the Govt might legally dispose of the lumber in that Section permits to cut which have in some cases already been issued.”[ii] It was a somewhat frantic and belated effort to legally rectify a serious error—the government was issuing timber permits on land that had possibly not yet been ceded by treaty.”

During the treaty negotiations, the Cree leaders from Montreal Lake had a somewhat different view than their Lac La Ronge counterparts in what should be included in the articles and terms of the treaty, and what should be included in the initial and subsequent treaty payments. The syllabic letters that I found were sent to Ottawa after the treaty negotiations were complete and the treaty signed, but before the first payment came in the fall of 1889. The letters came from the Montreal Lake leadership, outlining in further detail their thoughts on the treaty, and what would be most useful to them as part of their treaty payment. They had clearly had some time to think, and wanted to send a message on their expectations and needs. However, it is not known if anyone working for Indian Affairs at the time was able to translate these requests.

The letters are a mix of Cree syllabic and English handwriting, and are written by three different people: Chief William Charles, councilor Benjamin Bird (who wrote 2 of the four pages), and councilor Isaac Bird. In 2016, I met Dion Tootoosis at an event in support of Prince Albert National Park. I told him about the texts, and he Angela Custer at the Saskatchewan Indigenous Cultural Centre took the project in hand. With the help and advice of Arok Wolvengrey and Solomon Ratt, the Centre was able to translate the syllabic into today’s written Cree, and for my benefit, to English.

Page one, from Chief William Charles, who also requested (in English) matches, and a copy of the treaty document.

kâ-ati-otayâniyâhk êkosi nitisi-kâkîsimonânto have clothing, this is what we pray for

It seems clear that the translation of Fort Carlton or Fort La Corne is a bit incorrect, as this document references the treaty terms signed at Molanosa. The expected fall treaty payment for the Montreal Lake band would take place at the south end of the lake, in what would become their home reserve. But otherwise, the Chief greets the Queen and asks for compassion for his people.

Page two, from Benjamin Bird.

The second page is from Benjamin Bird, who was an outspoken councilor both at the negotiations and as shown by his two syllabic pages.

I was absolutely delighted to receive these wonderful translations. They speak to me in a clear voice, across the years, of local leadership working hard to put their people to the best advantage in the negotiations of the treaty. The requests show a wonderful mix of boreal forest tools, such as rip saws for forestry and net twine for fishing, with local agricultural needs such as rakes, hoes and seeds. Window panes and nails for building strong homes fitted well with calls for medicine and clothes. Isaac Bird spoke loudest about money payments, which should have (but did not) include back payment for all the years between the original signing of Treaty Six in 1876, and the new signing in 1889.

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/07/14/an-1889-cree-syllabic-letter/feed/3cree syllabic four_001merlemassieCree Syllabic one_001cree syllabic two_001cree syllabic three_001John Beames: Prince Albert’s lost authorhttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/06/15/john-beames-prince-alberts-lost-author/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/06/15/john-beames-prince-alberts-lost-author/#commentsThu, 15 Jun 2017 22:42:30 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=863[Hey everyone. I’ve been away from my blog for a long time (for good reasons, I do promise). But I have a lot of bite-sized pieces that I’ve published in various places, sitting on my computer. I’m going to start bringing them in here.]

*** NOTE: this piece was originally published in Rural Roots August 21st 2014 ****

John Beames is a western Canadian author “who does not deserve to be as completely forgotten as he has been,” wrote Dick Harrison in 1977, commenting on prairie writers.

But, even in Prince Albert, the town he worked so hard to make famous, Beames is all but forgotten.

Born in India in 1889, John Beames was the son of a British army officer, well-used to traveling and adventure. Taken to Britain, Beames entered public school until the family relocated to Canada, taking up a homestead farm north of Prince Albert when the land was opened for settlement, about 1906.

Prince Albert author John Beames. Courtesy SaskHistoryOnline

As was the case with most homesteaders, local jobs brought extra cash. Beames worked as a lumberjack, a millhand, and did some trapping. He also hauled freight on the winter trails north from Prince Albert, taking goods up the old Montreal Lake trail. Eventually, he became a bookkeeper and started writing stories for pulp magazines. By 1926, stories such as “Cuff Her, Riverhog” and “The Price of a Pelt” found their way into Short Stories and Ace-High Magazine.

The Ace-High Magazine had a tagline of “Western Adventure and Sport Stories,” and sold for 20 cents a copy. Its covers showed cowboys, in hats and chaps and guns and handkerchiefs, glorying in action. Beames published forty-four short stories in Ace-High, eighteen in West, as well as other pulp publications.

His work brought a distinctly northern flavour to the magazines. Lumberjacks, freighters, trappers and bears, gold mining and prospecting, trees and muskegs seasoned his stories.

Beames moved to Toronto in 1928, persuaded by his editor to write full-time. The Great Depression curbed his writing, as so many pulp magazines suffered in the economic crisis. But Beames, with the weight of practice, wrote three novels that put Prince Albert on the fictional map.

Army Without Banners was published in 1930. The main characters, Billy and Maggie Clovelly, are cast as pioneers homesteaders in the northern bush. “Real, wild, new country – that’s what I like. Fences give me a pain in the neck.” The nearest town is Riverton, a mask for Prince Albert, but the town features little in the story. Instead, Beames recreates what it was like to build a homestead, then a neighborhood, then a community, with each quarter slowly filling and the land changing from bush to farmland.

The characters face typical homestead stories, from digging a well to building a homestead shack, getting rooked by an implement dealer and taking freighting contracts in winter to make a little money. Church services and community parties, with a mix of cultures, brings the homestead world to life.

In the end, all that civilization was too much for Billy Clovelly, and he sells his farm to move even further north, to the Peace River country of Alberta, to start all over again in a place with no fences. “He was not made for civilization, but appointed by fate a scout, a spyer-out of the land.”

Two more novels followed in close succession, both with a clear focus on the city of Prince Albert: Gateway in 1932, and Duke in 1933. In both these novels, the city is renamed Gateway – a play on Prince Albert’s tagline, “Gateway to the North.” River Street is Water Street, “three miles long, with a sawmill at either end, and followed the wide windings of the Sweetwater River,” a fictional version of the Saskatchewan. Central Avenue became Maple Avenue, and the “train went no further, and from the banks of the Sweetwater to the Arctic there stretched the Northern wilderness.” Both were published in Britain by Ernest Benn Limited, no doubt to an audience still eager for rough-and-tumble stories from the far-flung colonies.

Gateway tells the story of Richard Black, a handsome ne’er-do-well bachelor who inherits a store on Water Street and struggles to both turn a profit and escort the prettiest girl in town, Molly McLay, in style. The rival for Molly’s fickle affection is Conquest Gates, owner of the local flour mill. Side characters abound, and Beames has a deft touch when it comes to writing local language. A rival store owner, Mr. Isenberg, described a customer: “I don’t give him no credit, it’s cash or trade mit dot deadbeat. He bring in some botter an’ some Seneca root just now an’ trade, I don’t give him no credit.”

In some ways, Duke, his final novel, is Beames’ best portrayal of Prince Albert. In it, he takes the theme of town boosterism, real estate booms and how they can be created. The central character, Marmaduke Ming, becomes the “Duke,” a real estate man complete with a vapish wife who strips him of money and pride.

But the heart of the story is the rush to build a power dam at Thunder Falls – which Prince Albert residents would recognize as La Colle Falls. “The river came foaming down a littered stairway of granite rock and leaped out in a bold and beautiful curve, to fall into a boiling basin forty feet below.” The novel follows the power-dam idea through politics, engineering, raising money, and ultimately the bust that stopped the project and sent Gateway/Prince Albert into a tailspin of debt. Duke Ming, in the end, goes off to fight in the Great War in 1914.

While the old Western Producer book publishing series re-issued Army Without Banners in 1988, both Duke and Gateway are rare finds. Only the lucky will find one of the few copies. I bought mine through rare book hunts and treasure them. But I suspect, with Beames’ connection to Prince Albert and its fictionalization into Gateway, that there are still a few copies of these books hiding in P.A. family bookshelves.

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/06/15/john-beames-prince-alberts-lost-author/feed/3merlemassieJohn Beames.SaskHistoryOnlineArmy Without BannersLa_Colle_Falls_hydroelectric_power_-_R-A1796-2Tammy Robertshttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/03/15/tammy-roberts/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/03/15/tammy-roberts/#respondThu, 16 Mar 2017 04:58:57 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=844Recently, I started following Saskatchewan-based writer Tammy Roberts. While I don’t always agree with her stuff, she is doing some excellent research work and asking some hard-hitting questions about provincial politics. This is her latest:

Recently a SaskParty Cabinet Minister – a really, really lovely person who I truly like – said to me, “You know, you could write something nice once in a while.” I want to. I really do. But after the SaskParty’s absolutely absurd behavior this week – and outright attempts to mislead us, it won’t be happening today. […]

]]>https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2017/03/15/tammy-roberts/feed/0merlemassieThree mistakes I made during my academic job interviewshttps://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2016/08/05/three-mistakes-i-made-during-my-academic-job-interviews/
https://merlemassie.wordpress.com/2016/08/05/three-mistakes-i-made-during-my-academic-job-interviews/#respondSat, 06 Aug 2016 00:53:34 +0000http://merlemassie.wordpress.com/?p=720Actually, that’s an arbitrary number. I’m pretty sure that I made more mistakes than that — and I have no doubt that the people who interviewed me saw more than I remember.

But my goal is to help others who might be chasing the academic dream to…reveal…to you what I know for sure that I did wrong during my short-lived time attempting to land an elusive position as a tenure-track faculty member somewhere in Canadian academia.

I’ll probably follow that up with a post someday that tracks three things that I did — and continue to do — right, but for right now, let’s get this out of the way.

Merle Massie speaking at the book launch for Forest Prairie Edge in 2014 at McNally Robinson in Saskatoon

For now, in no particular order, are three things that I did wrong:

I did all my research about institutions on-line.

I did do my research, each and every time. I looked up the department, got to know it as well as I could from profiles and publications, syllabi and accolades, student groups and its place in the larger University community.

But in one particularly memorable case, my on-line research messed me up. There was a list of all the classes that department offers – a list which included a whole bunch that I’d have been very keen to teach. But when I went into the two-day interview, I thought that I would be stepping on someone else’s toes if I talked about how I would teach those classes — after all, they were listed, so someone else was teaching them, right? So I didn’t mention them.

During the interview, I could sense that something was amiss as I nattered on about other classes I would be prepared to teach. They quietly asked, why didn’t I talk about my specialty? It was then that they revealed, I was being interviewed because the courses they were looking for me to teach had been really popular — but the professor had moved off to another University. Oops.

What I learned: call the Department if you get an interview, and ask questions about the position, why it’s open, and what kinds of things (teaching, research, collaborations) they would be looking for in particular. I would have known then what to talk about in both my research and teaching talks.

2. I got an interview at a place that I knew I couldn’t move to.

And it’s a wonderful university in a beautiful setting, with stupendous colleagues and a great teaching environment. But I have a bit of a unique family situation (we call it a farm) and as soon as the plane landed, I froze up inside. I knew that moving there would mean too much change for us. And that freeze, I’m sure, translated into my interview.

I consoled myself a little bit, thinking, I was following the ‘academic’ rule: send out lots of applications to lots of different Universities. After all, once you’ve crafted your application and send it off, we applicants (supplicants) have no idea if we’re going to get ‘the call’ or not.

One sometime-mentor explained the academic application process to me using gun terminology: you can apply for academic positions using the shotgun technique (which shoots bullets that are filled with small pellets that fly everywhere — your aim isn’t great but if you shoot enough applications out there to lots of Universities, you’ll hit something and get an interview, eventually), or the rifle technique (where you only shoot a few, very select bullets, which are crafted and aimed with extreme care, which can also yield an interview).

What I learned: only apply for the positions and at the Universities that you really want, and think you can be excited about, and actually move to. I have friends, more mobile than I, who have taken positions that they don’t want, and their unhappiness scares me. And them. I don’t think that’s a way to live life, even though that’s probably what some mentor has told you (take the position until a better one comes along). It’s up to you, but I know I can’t do it.

3. A job interview is not a soapbox.

This is the one that occasionally wakes me up at night: what if I had answered that question differently? I made it through 84 applicants, through a ‘top ten’ Skype call, down to the final three, invited on-campus for a two-day interview. I was ecstatic, excited, and crafted my research and teaching presentations with great care. I had a mentor who offered excellent advice and I knew, right up until the group interview, that I was nailing it.

But then the wheels came off my hot wheels car. It was a spectacular crash.

One of the questions was both innocuous and anything but: how, Merle, would your research (which is local-based place studies) resonate with an international audience?

This is a question that I’ve struggled with, as too often, the local (Saskatchewan, western Canada) is rather undervalued as a place to research, while ‘international’ tends to carry an aura of sophistication, of exotic.

I tossed the question back on the asker in the heat of the moment and pointed out quite clearly how we differed in the way we viewed the world. I value the local first. In fact, I was articulate and full of pride about my views.(My Mom might say that my Dad came out my mouth, but no, it was me). My response left no one in the room unclear on my position, which wasn’t — and isn’t — wrong, it was just a very different worldview than that of the world-renowned researcher who asked the question.

We were all a bit uncomfortable when I was done, once I got over the heat of my passionate response.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot, and I know what I would have done differently.

I know that people don’t remember what you say; they remember how you made them feel. I deliberately broke any sense of ‘connection’ that I had built with that room full of people, and it was the wrong place to do that. I thought I was showing passion for my work. They saw a future colleague with an agenda and a hint of acerbic temper, and they — rightly — didn’t like it.

What I learned: prepare for the hard questions, the ones that you know will ‘get your goat,’ the ones that make your back shiver and your tongue loosen. If you craft some strategies and tactics around handling those questions in advance, you’ll be more prepared. A job interview is not a soapbox. And if nothing else, you’ll be able to remind yourself that what hiring committees are really looking for is a colleague, and act accordingly.

My apologies to all of the hiring committees, and job interviews, that I went to but messed up — with faulty research, an agenda, or a simple place mismatch. You were part of my learning process, and I thank you for it.

Although I likely won’t be a University professor any time soon — farm, not moving — this post does two things for me: 1. Pass on these bits of wisdom to others, for what they’re worth, and 2. Embraces my faults and mistakes. They are part of who I am.

Slightly acerbic. Always cheering for the local. And committed to place.